It’s been a slow start for team GB. Deputy Chef de Mission Sir Clive Woodward is being made to look like Sir Clive Sinclair as we rack up 4th, 5th and 6th places in the few sports in which we’re making the finals. Yes, we’re all thinking the tide will turn once the first one is in the bag, but the bag is full of holes, eaten by the the moths of expectation.

Still, we should put in a protest. We need help as home support increases the pressure to such an extent that it becomes a handicap, therefore we should be awarded copper medals for filling the top 3 places behind the top 3 places. If Jacques Rogge says yes and agrees to backdate our gallant runners-up to the medallists, then it suddenly doesn’t look so bad. Our copper haul alone would be enough the re-mint the nation and crack the deficit into the bargain.

Yes, it is childish. Then again, so is wanting to win at everything. And most of the commentary on the radio by broadcasters out of their sporting depth.

Let’s throw a national paddy and see if it works.

After 3 everyone….one….two….


Scandal gets us up off our seat, or at least forces us to adjust our arse and defer the mid-summer piles for another week. And we’ve recently been treated to a deluge of scandal, from Bob Diamond’s figure fiddling to Murdoch’s media meltdown to most African elections to a stadium full of Olympic own goals. How about we merge the javelin with archery and ask Nick Buckles to hold the target?

It’s opened a can of worms the size of Saturn. Nothing we hear, see or experience is what it claims to be anymore. And although some of the culprits step down, they hardly suffer, as public baggage comes back to bless the so-called victim. Take Beckham. He can shag his children’s au pair and be held high as the ultimate bastion of what’s great about sport. Even Tiger Woods is back on the road to forgiveness after his 9 hole diversion. At least Boris Becker had the decency to make his ‘shag-in-a-restaurant-broom-cupboard-with-a-waitress’ funny.

If infidelity is acceptable, why do we crucify the first person to really speak their mind on social media? It’s as though it’s all pretence – facebook, twitter, and all the stats that reinforce their popularity. This is no true barometer of what people want, or want to think. We’re just herding people as sheep into stinking tanks to be dunked, and it’s only when we pop out the other side that we feel we’ve been part of the great social media swindle.

Not that this is wrong. We just need to acknowledge it, that’s the point.

We’ve been duped.

Trend that.


It comes with deep regret that due to cutbacks at the Met Office, we can, as a nation, no longer afford seasons. In an official statement from the flooded Exeter HQ, a spokesperson in waders said, ‘it’s like act of god, but without the thundery voice.’ We called God and asked if he’d like to sue. He declined to comment then disappeared in a puff of mizzle.

This news is already ripping the soul out of the fashion industry, although the soul itself was heard to be relieved and happy after years of neglect, and is now looking for a new home. Another hard hit industry is tourism, who have pledged to go back to school in order to be able to tell the time of year.

The new all year round seasonless period of time will now be referred to as ‘Blanket’. ‘Blanket’ will be celebrated on the 7th of each month with a naked sundance at reservoirs across Britain.






Almost Psychopaths are not like Almost Alcoholics. They may sound like more of a danger to society, but really their condition is not as black and white as the brush that tars those of us who like a drink (in the morning).

This is because psychopathy is measured on a sliding scale of 1 to 20, a report tells us. And like all psychometric tests, we can’t wait to see where we sit relative to Hannibal Lector.

While waiting my turn at the walk-in assassin clinic, it made me think of tendancy. Do you have a tendancy to think about jabbing a stranger in the belly as walk down the street but your rational self inhibits this pang of violence? So, you don’t do it. You think about doing it, but you stop one motor neurone short of physically doing it and triggering a delta of dire consequences.

Instead you walk away processing this psychopathic urge. Where did it come from? Dad? No he’s too soft. Mum? No, she carries a gun. Is it genetic at all or an accrued sense of derangement? Does this condition have a name, this Thug Reflex Palsy?

It does now.


You might be wondering why a there is a coach parked on top of the De La Warr Pavillion. You might be thinking ‘hey, that’s my spot where I eye up old ladies on their way to the shops, figuring out exactly when to swoop down and shit a small white broach into their purple rinse’.

Well, stop thinking and wondering, and start admiring.

This is a work of art of the highest humour, thanks to Richard Wilson.

Tell your gull-pals all along the south coast about it then get them to all line up and clap their wings like a hummingbird on MDMA. Then, in your squawk-tongue, cry the tune to ‘Self-Preservation Society’ as it’s affectionately known.


Sir Chris Hoy can ride a bike. The bike knows this as every time he gets on the back, as he propels the bike so fast the handlebars cry. All this peddling (bikes, not drugs) over the years has given Sir Chris thighs the size of mighty Spanish hams and of course earned him a title from the Queen, plus a fair few quid from Bran Flakes.

Enter Bradley Wiggins, Tour-de-Francer and fellow Olympian extraordinaire. Bradley can also ride a bike. He was a gnat’s hair away from bagging triple gold in Beijing himself despite owning no thighs. His thighs are as lean as asparagus. His calves out-bulge his thighs. His upside-down legs are enough to make Mrs Slocombe eat her tape measure.

Now, Bradley may be sir-less and thigh-less and look like a Paul Weller groupie but like Douglas Barder before him, Wiggins knows the way to that knighthood is to defy fools like me who question his physical capabilities.

In fact, such is my shame that come the Olympics, as Wiggins hits the last lap in the lead, I shall hurl myself onto the velodrome track, Emily Davison at the Derby 100 years ago, and take out the pack one and all.

Ignore the roadkill strewn across the track.

Just cheer him home.